


Betrothed

by Jui_Imouto_Chan



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Human, Arranged Marriage, As Slow a Burn I can Manage, Dorky Connor, Eventual Smut, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Human AU, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Human Upgraded Connor | RK900, I'm making this up as I go along, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, So Probably Not Very SLow, Unrequited Crush, Why Do I Even Bother Tagging?, inconsistent updates, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-08-03 20:36:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16333028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jui_Imouto_Chan/pseuds/Jui_Imouto_Chan
Summary: A merger between the Kamski Corporation and Cyberlife, reinforced by offering up the children of each of the heads of the companies to be wed. They claimed it was a fast love to the media, that their sons had been meeting in private for months and were ready to commit themselves to each other in front of the public.And now, Connor is about to be married to a man he hasn't met yet, doesn't even know the name of.Great. Absolutely Lovely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eerien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eerien/gifts).



> I hadn't anticipated this being multiple chapters when I'd first written this, so excuse the shortness.

A merger between the Kamski Corporation and Cyberlife, reinforced by offering up the children of each of the heads of the companies to be wed. They claimed it was a fast love to the media, that their sons had been meeting in private for months and were ready to commit themselves to each other in front of the public.

Connor was sulking for the longest while after the initial announcement, his mind stuck on the cafe he’d visit on the regular, housing someone who’d garnered his interest, a dark skinned man with breathtaking heterochromatic eyes named Markus.

He’d have to cast aside any hope for pursuing the barista and instead accept a life of domesticity with a man he hasn’t even met yet.

Lovely.

 

—

 

Fingers rubbing absently above the spot beneath his pant leg where lace wraps around his thigh, Connor lets himself get lost in staring at the decorations as he’s led down the aisle.

Everything is extravagant, whites and blues and blacks as the general color scheme. People are smiling, convinced that he and his groom are doing this out of love rather than obligation. As if this is anything more than a business agreement.

Connor doesn’t pay attention to his groom, looks at his feet and doesn’t meet the other’s eyes. His responses are all automatic, quick and to the point. He can hear cooed whispers from some, claiming that he’s shy but eager, that he can’t wait until—

“You may now kiss your groom.”

He’s pulled into an embrace, made to look passionate and intimate with the arm around the small of his back and the hand grabbing his chin to tilt his head up. He meets the other’s lips without feeling, ignoring the hand caressing his cheek in a fake show of affection.

He separates from the man, now his husband, and hides his face, pretending that he’s blushing while he forces a smile on his face, holding his spouse’s hand.

 

—

 

Connor tucks away in an unattended corner, head cradled in his palm as he swirls a glass of whatever alcohol it was that was set on the table by a blur of a frazzled server.

He can’t even taste the drink, everything seems so dull.

He lets his eyelids droop, tired from the stress of pretending to be a lovesick puppy for a man he can’t even bring himself to look at.

He’s surprised to find a blue rose held in front of his nose when he opens them again, its lovely scent rousing him from his half-asleep state.

He looks down to see a pale hand holding the stem of the flower, then follows the arm attached until he locks his auburn orbs with a set of glacier ones.

“You appear quite lonely for one of the main focuses of this event.” the man says in a cool tone, deep voice pleasing to the tired groom’s ears.

Connor half smiles, “It’s nothing to worry about; I simply wanted a break from the excitement of it all.”

The man raises an eyebrow, his extra strand of hair, similar to Connor’s own errant lock, hanging as he cocks his head slightly. “It is  _very_   _much_ something to worry about. A beautiful flower shouldn’t be left in a corner to wilt.” He says, easing his grip on the stem enough to let it slide between his thumb and forefinger until he held the base of the flower itself. He swiftly tucks the flower into the area above Connor’s ear, and the brunet’s eyes widen, a hint of pink tinting his cheeks and the ear that the man’s fingers brushed against.

“You’re quite the suave one, sir. I do wonder, however; does the flirtatious gentleman before me have a name?” Connor manages to ask, attempting to sound unaffected. His slowly reddening cheeks give him away well enough, but he’s known to be stubborn by many, so he doesn’t let go of the act.

The man smiles, though it looks almost amused and perhaps even a tad smug. He kneels before Connor’s seat, curling his left hand around Connor’s.

Then, and only then, does Connor finally notice the matching wedding rings placed on both of their fourth fingers.

“At this point, it’d be best if you called me your husband,  _dear_.” Amanda Stern’s son, the next head of Cyberlife, leans down to brush his lips against the back of Connor’s hand, smirking. Connor’s eyes widen and his mouth opens in shock.

He flirted with a man on his wedding night, who just so happened to be the man he’s now married to.

What the fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

Connor stands up from his chair, pulling his hand out of the other’s hold quickly to hold it against his chest, almost smacking at the small white rose boutonnière on the collar of his black suit jacket. He’s hit with a wave of dizziness at the sudden movement, and loses his balance.

His husband, a term that is still leaving him reeling, rises swiftly to steady him, a hand at his hip and on his shoulder, pulling him against his chest to keep Connor supported.

“Are you alright?”

Connor really wants to answer, ‘No, I’m not alright, you’re immensely attractive and mocking me and I hate you already,’ but he refrains. Instead, after peering past his partner, he leans his head against the taller man’s shoulder, one hand splayed on the man’s firm, white-clad chest and the other curved around his back, keeping him close.

“Honey,” he purrs, sickly sweet, then lowers his volume so that only the other can hear him, continuing once the steel-eyed man tilted his head down to lend an ear, “there’s a reporter approaching us. We’re going to go dance after speaking with her.”

His groom, who he finds he doesn’t know the name of, raises a brow in amusement. Connor spots the reporter nearing and deems it best to play up their ‘romance’. He presses his lips to the skin just above the man’s high collar, on the underside of his jaw, forcing a loving smile. His partner keeps his eyes trained on him, the both of them pretending that they’re too absorbed in one another to hear the loud clicking of heels behind them.

“So sorry to interrupt,” the woman says, eyes twinkling, “I just wanted to come and tell you this is a lovely wedding, and that you both look gorgeous. You’re quite the eyecatching pair.”

Connor pulls himself away, the flush across his cheeks not entirely fake as he stares at her with embarrassment spread across his features. He ‘sheepishly’ grabs his husband’s hand, interlocking their fingers. “That’s very kind of you to say, Miss…?”

“Maxine Traci, from Eden Magazine.”

Connor shakes her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Traci.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” She grins, but her posture shifts to become more professional. “By the way, Eden Magazine would actually like to make two you an offer.” The two of them look at each other then return their gazes to her, so she preceeds, “We’d like to write about your love story in our next issue, as well as have you two model for our cover page.”

Connor is ready to decline politely, but his groom is already speaking when he opens his mouth. “We accept the offer. You can contact our secretary about scheduling on a later date.”

She brightens up, looking delighted. “Thank you very much, Mr. Stern. We’ll be in touch.” Maxine calls as she takes her leave, short brown hair bouncing with each step.

Connor turns his head to pin his husband with a sharp glare. “I didn’t agree to this.”

The man smirks down at him, tightening his hold on his hip, “But I did.”

Connor scowls at him.

“Don’t look at me like that.” The man’s face swoops down so he can rest his forehead against Connor’s. “Your face is too beautiful to be marred by such an angry expression.” Unfortunately, he pulls away.

(Unfortunately?? No, he wants to be very far away from this man. The distance is not unfortunate. Nuh-uh, no way.)

Connor wants to retort, cheeks stained red, but his response dies in his throat as he instead plasters a happy, affectionate look on his face, the steel-eyed man leading him to the dance floor. Couples part to make room for them.

A song Connor vaguely remembers requesting to his father begins playing as they reach the center, spotlights focusing all of the attention on their forms.

Connor looks up to meet his spouse’s eyes, locking his arms around his neck while another large hand drops to his hips, long fingers urging him closer.

They begin their dance easily enough, slowly stepping about, Connor following his groom’s lead, but they add complexity to their motion with every millisecond that passes, as though they’re attempting to outdo one another.

It’s a spectacular sight, the two of them spinning and twirling and gliding across the floor with grace and intensity. Every move is met with a perfect responsive action, every spin is executed perfectly.

Connor remembers the dance in the video of this song as their motions slow, and it’s as though they choreographed it, his husband’s eyes alight in recognition as they press their backs together and slide to the floor,

“Place your hand on my beating heart.”

And then Connor is pushing the man to the floor and dancing on his own above him.

His heart is racing, he feels light even when he straddles the man’s torso and slowly stands, hands trailing down his legs.

He’s having so much fun, losing himself in the moment as he and what was no one more than a stranger but an hour ago dance with an unexpected intimacy.

“Baby, we found love right where we are.” The song repeats, almost at its end.

Connor sees a smile on his spouse’s face, and that’s when he trips over himself, colliding with the man’s chest. The two of them fall to the floor harmlessly.

Connor apologizes, pulling himself up with hands on either side of his husband’s head, staring down into surprised but warm grey eyes, noticing the slight tinge of blue only once he’s this close.

The two of them are panting, and Connor’s heart stutters in his chest as the smile resurfaces on the other’s face, a small huff of a laugh pushing past the man’s lips. Connor really likes the sound, really likes this closeness, really likes the pounding ba-bump, ba-bump in his ears. If he leans down, he could feel the other’s own drumming beat against his chest, and it’s a question of whether it’s only from physically exerting themselves to song or from something more.

The cheers and hollers and wolf whistles all around them bring him back into reality, make him scramble up and offer a hand to his husband. There’s a shout of, “Save it for tonight!!” from someone in crowd, and good-natured laughter errupts.

Connor thinks he’s going to explode from the fiery blush coating his skin. He notices a small bit of pink on his husband’s ears and is glad to know that if he’s going to be embarrassed, then he’s not going to suffer alone.

He sees the crowd shift, and then the son of Connor’s main bodyguard squeezes through the group of people to reach Connor, handing the brunet a bouquet of blue, black and white roses. I’m starting to see a theme here, Connor thinks dryly.

“It’s time for the tosses!” Little Cole informs him (and the crowd). “But your Dad said that you need to change clothes for it.”

Connor whines childishly. His father is known to mess with him at any chance he can get, so whatever he’s going to be wearing, it’ll be embarrassing.

Cole wraps his hand around Connor’s, barely able to hold it with his small, nine-year old fingers. He’s lead out into a hallway, and then brought into a room, where Cole’s father, Hank Anderson, sits beside a fluffy wedding dress.

“Is this why I was told to wear stockings under my dress pants?” Connor asks, unbuttoning his blue dress shirt, having already shucked off his black suit jacket.

“Your dad’s probably pissing himself laughing just thinking about what you’re about to wear.”

“Oh yes, that’s reassuring, Hank, thank you.” His words drip sarcasm. Hank barks out a laugh, Cole and Connor smiling in response. “Come on, I’m sure I can rock a wedding dress.”

“I’m sure you can, too. Doesn’t mean you’re not gonna be a walking tomato while wearing it, though.”

“That’s… not a reassuring claim. I’ve worn a dress before, what’s different about now?”

“Damn, you already forgot? Well, I’m not gonna be the one to remind you.”

-

Upon his return, he is met with compliments about his looks and the dress he sports, ruffled white bottom lifted just enough to let him walk.

Some business men are conversing with his groom, and when they all turn to look at him, his husband receives pats on the back, the men declaring him a lucky man.

The crowd is gathered back up, and the bouquet toss is relatively uneventful. Maxine and a blue haired woman end up catching the flowers together, meeting eyes as their hands make contact and sparks of interest flash in their expressions.

The garter toss originally starts as innocent as the relinquishing of his chastity can be, his groom’s hands gliding up his smooth legs to grasp the garter holding up stocking, but then Elijah Kamski, his goddamn fucked up dad, shouts that he’s supposed to use his mouth.

So now, Connor is crimson in mortification as his husband’s head disappears under the skirt of his dress, breath fanning against his thigh.

Teeth nip at his skin in the process of grasping the garter, and Connor hides his face in his hands as he squeaks. The garter is tugged down his leg, and finally the taller brunet’s head pops back out, the lace held in his mouth. His eyes are dark, but they aren’t meeting his, a whisper of red high on his cheekbones. He releases it into his hand and balls it up loosely.

The man throws it behind himself, moving immediately after to stand next to Connor’s seat. He leans down to scoop the smaller into a bridal carry—almost appropriate, considering his attire, but still utterly embarrassing. Neither of them can even bring themselves to care about who caught the garter as Connor is taken away from the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Connor in a wedding dress. I'm ashamedly unashamed.


	3. Chapter 3

After they’ve gotten a good block away, hidden in the shadows of early evening, Connor finally finds it in himself to wriggle in his husband’s grasp, kicking his legs. The taller puts him down, and Connor is thankful for the cool breeze brushing against his heated cheeks and ears.

“We can end our act here, then?” his spouse says quietly, monotonous.

Connor nods, blush finally abating as he decreases his proximity with the other. His husband pulls a phone from his pocket, tapping at the screen.

An automated vehicle approaches their location less than two minutes later, so Connor is lead to believe that his spouse had called it over on his phone. They enter, Connor dragging the bottom of his dress further in when the doors start closing behind him. Connor can barely feel the car take off, smoothly moving onto the road. His husband is the one to break the silence.

“Your luggage has already arrived at our home,” Connor’s heart jumps at the wording—‘our home’. He’d always been a hopeless romantic, and that fact has come to bite him in the ass. “I‘ll order a second bed for the bedroom once we arrive; it will likely be delivered by tomorrow afternoon, at the latest.”

Connor can’t help but notice how clipped his husband’s tone is.

…Connor realizes that he  _still_  doesn’t know his ‘romantic’ partner’s name. The latter thought takes priority to the former, so Connor decides to say, “I’d never actually gotten your name.”

His husband’s eyes leave the screen to stare at him with disbelief.

“You don’t know my name.” He says, when Connor doesn’t immediately add anything afterwards. “…You’re joking, right?”

The two of them sit in silence for a moment, staring at one another, before his husband’s shoulders start shaking, a smile struggling to remain contained before his husband gives in and bursts out into a fit of chuckles.

“It’d be polite to at least tell me what it is!” Connor’s cheeks are pink again, though it’s from indignant embarrassment rather than from near-intimacy with a handsome stranger like earlier.

His husband’s laughter finally subsides, the other still smiling—no, smirking—in amusement. Connor hates the warm fuzziness in his stomach that the look causes.

“It’s rather interesting that you hadn’t cared enough to look me up prior to our wedding, despite knowing you’d be legally bound to me.”

Connor sputters, trying to come up with an excuse and failing. Strange, he’s usually more eloquent than this—then again, as his time around Markus had proven, he flounders around attractive people.

“Can’t you just tell me?”

“Hmm…”  _What the hell kind of response is that?!_  “…No.”

“What am I supposed to call you, then? Reporters will ask me questions about the love of my life and all I’ll be able to answer with will be an, ‘I don’t know—he never told me.’ No, I’m not about to ruin my father’s reputation like that—Actually, fuck you, I’m going to search it up.”

Connor moves a hand to his pants pocket and suddenly realizes he isn’t wearing pants. He doesn’t have pockets. He doesn’t have his phone. His hands pat all over his body, as if the device would be hanging off of his dress somehow, but panic settles in as he inevitably finds nothing.

His husband laughs at him again, making Connor fume. “This isn’t funny!”

“No, no, I think it is.”

”You’ve only talked with me about nine times, and you’ve already made me hate you.” Connor crosses his arms and turns away.

He’s silent for a moment, thinking, then his face lights up. “ _Yes, that’s perfect!_ ” he mutters to himself happily.

The husband expects Connor to elaborate, but Connor only smiles proudly to himself while remaining silent.

The remainder of the drive is uneventful, and they arrive at their new shared residence after only ten or so minutes. They remove themselves from the vehicle and make for the door, Connor being the one to cut through the quiet this time.

“So, Nines, should I just sleep on a couch?”

“If you’d pref—Nines?” Connor grins at his perplexed look.

“Since you won’t tell me your name, I thought I’d use a nickname. It makes sense for couples to have terms of endearment for their partners, no?”

‘Nines’ raises an eyebrow, “How are you going to explain the term to the press?”

Connor puts on a look of fake adoration, stepping closer to him and wrapping an arm around his back, gluing himself to Nines’ side.

“It took nine encounters,” he says dramatically, acting as though he’s speaking with a reporter, “for him to confess his love to me. Not only that, but, with him, I feel like I’m always on cloud nine. Isn’t it a fitting name?”

Nines looks down at Connor, unimpressed and bemused. “Are you finished with your theatrics?”

“Now where did the charming man I’d married go?” Connor pouts good-naturedly.

“The man you don’t know the name of? Sorry, we left him behind at the wedding party. Along with your cellphone.” The door to their house opens up once Nines glances up at a camera above it.

Connor laughs as Nines shoves him into the house, and maybe the alcohol from earlier is coming back to make everything a little more pleasant.

Nines grabs Connor’s wrist to lead him up the stairs, but when Connor stumbles over the wedding dress still on his body, Nines rolls his eyes and curses before bending down to toss Connor over his shoulder.

Connor kicks his legs, much like he had when trying to escape the bridal carry earlier, though his struggles lessen once the two of them are moving up the stairs. Nines’ hand rests on the curve of his bottom, Connor’s upper half hanging behind his back; Nines pats Connor’s backside thoughtfully before nodding to himself and entering a room not too far down the hall from the stairs.

Connor gets tired after a short while of kicking and lets himself hang there, counting how many tiles pass underneath them idly before ultimately slipping his eyes shut.

And that’s the moment Nines tosses him onto the bed. Connor bounces on the cushy mattress, blinking rapidly in surprise with a yelp. His dress skirt had risen on his legs, showing off the well-toned but upsettingly soft legs Nines had been privy to the sight of while surrounded by tipsy wedding guests and family members.

Connor stares owlishly as Nines moves over to a wardrobe, Connor’s luggage set neatly beside it. Instead of rummaging through—Connor’s immensely grateful for that, there are some things in there that he wouldn’t want anyone to find but himself—Nines reaches into the wardrobe and tugs a shirt off of a hanger, tossing it at Connor unexpectedly.

“Get changed, it’s time to sleep.”

Connor holds the shirt confusedly, watching as Nines grabs himself a shirt and a pair of extremely nice sweatpants before turning towards a bathroom Connor hadn’t realized has been there.

Connor spends a good minute sitting on the bed, staring dumbly at the shirt in his hands. Eventually, he distractedly reaches behind himself to unzip his dress, but he finds himself unable to get a good hold of the zipper.

“You still haven’t changed yet?” Nines asks as he exits the bathroom, the embodiment of casual and comfortable in his sleepwear. Connor can’t wait to join him, but first, he has to win the war against the dress that refuses to come off.

Nines rolls his eyes.

“Would you like some assistance?” Connor reluctantly nods. Nines sighs, as if he hadn’t offered, and moves to sit behind him, long fingers pinching the zipper between the tips and then pulling down in a languid stroke. Like an artist dragging a paintbrush across a canvas.

 _Markus_.

Connor wants to delve into the lovely fantasy of being married to the attractive barista, Markus being the one to help him take off the dress, perhaps with intentions other than for sleeping, warm hands radiating heat onto his body—Connor’s face has already reddened, but then Nines’ cool fingers interrupt his fantasy as they move to push the dress off of his shoulders and down his arms and Connor is sure he looks like the strawberries that had adorned their wedding cake.

As soon as the dress is pooled over Connor’s waist, Nines gets up and steps away from the bed, back turned to Connor. Connor quickly pulls Nines’ shirt over his exposed torso before shimmying out of the dress, carefully pulling the bottom of the shirt to cover his lower half and thighs.

Nines peeks over his shoulder, relaxing once he finds that Connor is covered, sweeping the dress into his arms and moving to hang it up.

Connor, in the meantime, scoots backwards towards the pillows, tucking his feet under the covers and then moving the rest of his body beneath. He sighs happily at the warmth.

Nines makes to leave the room, turning off the light and opening the door, but Connor finds himself not wanting to be alone in such a new environment.

“I thought I was going to sleep on the couch?” he says tiredly.

Nines looks away, but Connor can see tiredness in his eyes and face. “You seem comfortable, you can stay there. I might as well get some work done and rest in my office.”

Connor feels almost tempted to allow the man to do so, but the thought is fleeting— “I’d be more comfortable if I had a familiar face nearby.” he admits nervously.

Nines sighs, again, but he strides towards the bed, hesitantly lifting the covers. “I only met you today; you qualify that as ‘familiar’?”

“Technically, we’re husbands, so more than familiar, you’re familial.” Connor shuffles to the side to make a bit more room, Nines slowly sliding in beside him. Connor turns over to make the other more comfortable.

“Whatever you say, wifey.” Nines’ arms wind around his waist slowly—Connor is sure that the other is doing his best to make sure Connor is alright with what he’s doing.

“Don’t call me that.” Connor taps a forearm scoldingly. They move away, but Connor moves them back into place.

Nines’ front is against his back, warmth pressing into his skin despite the coolness of Nines’ hands. Breath ghosts over his neck, sending a minute shiver down his spine. “Wifey.” Nines whispers conspiratorially.

Connor rolls his eyes and scoffs, closing them with a dry smile. “Can we sleep already?”

“Goodnight...” he says.

“Goodnight.”

They lapse into quiet.

“…Wifey.”

Connor muffles his “Fuck you,” into the pillow, smiling lightly as Nines laughs softly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor tries to figure out his place in the household. He still has no pants.

Connor presses his back against the body pillow behind him, settling against its warmth with a sleepy, pleased smile.

 

The scent of his bed is different than usual, the plush covers very slightly softer. Is he going to wake in yet another stranger’s home? After a moment of processing, he realizes there are arms wound around him, legs locked with his own, a firm, built body behind his own lean frame, which makes the answer more solid in his mind. 

 

A tiny part of Connor hopes that he’s awoken in Markus’ bed, that he’d finally gotten to confess his love to the man he’d been seeking, that he’d locked heated gazes with striking emerald and sapphire blue and woken in his arms after a night of passion. That Markus’ dark, strong arms are wrapped around his middle, pulling him close to his swelled, shifting his chest, to his hot form and against his beating heart.

 

Connor smiles, humming softly. “Good morning,” he whispers, the arms around him tightening as his bedmate noses into the crook of his neck with a half-hearted groan, missing the stubble that would prove that this is Markus. Connor sighs, a little disappointed, turning over to wrap his arms around the other’s neck.

 

Of course, his lidded eyes land under a stream of sunlight, red in his vision with heat crawling across his ear. Frowning lightly, he finally opens his eyes to be greeted by–--

 

A face very similar to his own, framed by the golden-white rays of sun.

 

Connor lets out a short, high screech, backpedaling until he’s on the floor, looking up at the bed. He attempts to regain his breath, to calm his racing heart, to rid his eyes of the illusion before him. His lookalike peers tiredly over the edge of the bed, steel-blue eyes dark and blinking at him with a small bit of disgruntlement. Connor’s legs are tangled in the sheets, which wrap and curl around him like a woven mermaid’s tail.

 

“Connor?” 

 

Said male quiets a soft scream. It takes a pregnant pause for Connor to gain recollection, and as soon as he does, he’s burying his face in his hands, the tiniest thump of pain accompanying the sudden motion.

 

“N-Nines, oh my god, I don’t—I’m sorry for overreacting.”

 

Nines shakes his head with a huff, pulling the sheets up and off of Connor, who yelps as he’s turned over repeatedly as the covers get unwound. Nines falls back to the bed after he’s stolen them back, the fabrics fluttering over his reclined body.

 

Connor twitches.

 

He scrambles to his feet, ready to shout at his husband, but upon catching the peaceful expression on his face, Connor softens and instead chooses to familiarize himself with his surroundings.

 

Unwilling to waste effort rummaging through their clothes, Connor pads out of the room, mindful of the noise he makes as to not disturb the person who’d shared a bed with him, tugging the bottom of the shirt he wears further down thoughtlessly.

 

He’s quick to find the kitchen, which is the most important discovery of his conquest, and immediately finds the living room and bathrooms from there. Once he’s gotten himself familiar with the locations he’s likely to spend the most time in, he makes his way out to greet the warm sun and the air with just a touch of chill in the shadows.

 

The garden in Nines’ home is beautiful, well-kept and ornate. Few statues adorn the ends of the greenery, and there are bushes of roses, all maintained to utter perfection. Little clippers lie on a picnic table in the center, near a small pond with a fountain and a bench overlooking it.

 

Connor’s little expedition brings out a childish glee to him, like a little boy finally free to play in the wide expanse of a park after his school had let him free. 

 

Though, Connor thinks wryly, he’s only read of such situations. He, himself, had been homeschooled, taught by his mother, Chloe, and the tutors she’d bring along when she didn’t know enough about a topic. Connor was an ever inquisitive student, and she had to bring more and more people to answer his increasingly in-depth questions.

 

Connor can only wonder what his husband’s childhood had been like. Sitting upon the bench, staring into the perfectly transparent water and looking into his color-washed reflection, Connor muses over the fact that his legal spouse is someone he knows next to nothing about. He doesn’t know his age, his birthday, what his favorite color is or even his  _name_. It’s unlike Connor to be so clueless, so out of his element in every way.

 

But, something about it makes him feel giddy. There’s a small bit of bubbliness swelling within his chest at the mystery of it all. 

 

He’d read through every detective-mystery-crime novel he could get his hands on when he was younger, until even the smallest of occurrences had him analyzing and overanalyzing everything. It progressed to the television he’d watch at dinner time, on rare occasions accompanied by his father, more often, now, in the company of Hank and Cole.

 

With new resolve, Connor stands, smiling determinedly to himself, and makes to head for the kitchen, ready to start the day on good standing with Nines.

 

On his way out of the garden, however, he spots a rose with petals withered at the corners, just barely imperfect enough to be out of place. Connor’s fingertips brush under it thoughtfully.

 

“ _Goddammit._ ” Connor jumps at the sudden voice, his finger catching on a thorn and bringing a prick of blood to well at the tip of his fingerpad. Wincing at the sharp sting, he whips his head to the intruder to find Nines, glaring darkly at the rose Connor had been observing.

 

Nines storms past him, swinging his arm to grab the clippers before stomping back over, his glare unyielding. He shoves past Connor gracelessly and, with a quick snip, removes the flower from the rest. A thorn, likely the same that pierced Connor’s finger, tears into his palm as he crushes the small bloom in his fist, staring into it, unreadably.

 

Connor wants to say something, but Nines’ demeanor makes him feel mildly fearful at the moment, so he retreats back inside to start breakfast, cradling the hand that has a smear of red slipping down a digit.

 

* * *

 

Connor rinses his hand. The wound has stopped bleeding, though it smarts. The bit of pain is bearable, so he wipes off the water and sets about preparing something simple.

 

Eggs and turkey bacon should be fine. It takes a bit of searching to find them, and while doing so he finds enough ingredients to make some small pancakes.

 

He prepares the batter while the pans heat, adding in some vanilla extract, brown sugar, and a sprinkle of cinnamon. He manages to keep his cut out of the way of his actions, tucking it into his palm and having the middle finger take over its duties. 

 

There’s a small dribble of egg white on the edge of the counter from where he cracked them, but he’ll clean up after he’s finished plating the food. He pan-fries the bacon, some of the fat/oil/juice splattering across the surface of the oven, to be added to the list of things to clean after. 

 

Once he’s gotten everything in order and plated, he calls, warily, for Nines.

 

“I’ve made breakfast!”

 

Nines answers him after two minutes, during which Connor shifts around anxiously, hoping he hasn’t done anything wrong.

 

Perhaps this sense of unfamiliarity will pass after a few days. Hopefully.

 

Nines enters the room, his black and grey clothing, as wrinkled and comfortable as it may appear, is still somehow pristine-looking when on his frame, tight around his bulging arms and chest and loosely hanging down to his hips. His sweatpants close at his ankles, the material at his strong thighs, which Connor felt against the backs of his own legs, are just the right amount of tight-yet-baggy. 

 

He’s unfairly good looking, and it makes Connor feel the slightest bit inferior, what with the slimmer, less masculine face of his, with the darker, rounder eyes and the freckles dotting his skin. Nines looks like he’s made of marble, carved expertly, and stands as rigidly as such an imposing statue, too. 

 

Connor sets the plates down on the table, watching cautiously as Nines steps past him, briefly rinsing his hands before beginning to clean Connor’s mess.

 

“I was planning on washing those with our plates after we’ve eaten.” Connor informs, but Nines gives no response, rolling up his sleeves briefly and turning on the sink. Steam rises from the stream of water while he prepares a sponge with soap.

 

The silence is awkward, uncomfortable, and makes Connor excuse himself to use the restroom. By the time he’s back, Nines has even finished eating, cleaning off his plate and heading for the office Connor spotted not too far from their bedroom.

 

He’ll try again later.

 

* * *

 

Connor peeks in, a bowl with grapefruit, pomegranate, and mango in separated sectors cradled in his hand. He knocks lightly on the wood, watching Nines shoot his head up and level the crack in the door with a hard stare. 

 

“Come in.” he grouses, returning his eyes to his screen while running a hand through his hair, though it returns to its neat state rather than getting messy. Connor smiles nervously.

 

“I thought you’d like a snack.”

 

He proffers the fruits to his husband, whose steel eyes melt just a fraction, taking the peace offering and placing it on his desk.

 

Two forks and one spoon, and no mess left behind in the kitchen. Connor’s fingers and lips are the slightest bit sticky, but Nines doesn’t need to know that.

 

“Thank you.” Nines murmurs, a ghost of a smile coming across his lips, though the smile parts for a chunk of grapefruit. He makes a pleased hum and gives Connor a nod in thanks, so Connor snatches a small bit for himself, careful not to drip juice near the files and papers. His face scrunches up immediately, kicking his feet a bit. 

 

As soon as the piece is down his throat, Connor turns watery eyes to Nines, who blinks at him with a mildly amused smirk. “What?”

 

“That was so  _sour_! How the hell–! I–--You’re a monster! Inhuman! How did you make it seem delicious?!”

 

Nines shrugs, snorting lightly.

 

Connor snatches a piece of mango, hoping that it’s sweet, thankful to find that it’s a happy neutral. Nines finishes off the grapefruit, spearing some mango with his fork before Connor can finish it all off. The pomegranates are something they consume in equal measure. Connor’s fingertips are stained red and pink, the closed cut all but forgotten. 

 

As soon as Nines notices, he clicks his tongue, rises from his seat, grabs Connor’s wrist, hauls him from his seat, and drags him through the halls. Connor’s in a bathroom with his hand run under the sink before he can really process all that’s happening, Nines squirting soap into his palms and washing his own spotless hands along with Connor’s.

 

“Like a child,” the taller mutters, his chest pressed against Connor’s and voice rumbling against Connor’s shoulders and neck, and right next to his ear, eliciting a small shiver.

 

It’s hard to think when they’re this close.

 

Nines leads him back after their hands are well cleaned and dry, a small dollop of lotion spread over their skin.

 

Thankfully, the decrease in proximity allows for Connor to function once more, and he swipes up the stress ball he saw on Nines’ desk and lays back on the couch to the side, tossing the ball up and catching it while Nines works.

 

“...Maybe Cain?” Connor says aloud.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Your name;” Connor clarifies, “I’m trying to figure it out.”

 

Nines makes a buzzer sound with his mouth.

 

“Damn.” Connor furrows his brows, “What about Collin?”

 

A loud, aggressive buzzer.

 

“Ethan? Aidan?”

 

Buzz-buzz.

 

“Richard?”

 

Buzz.

 

“Aww, man, but you’re  _totally_ a dick–”

 

“If you think you’re being original with that joke, you’re wrong.”

 

Connor laughs, Nines’ cheek twitching. Connor is glad to see that he’s suppressing a smile.

 

“What about Con–”

 

Nines’ cell phone vibrates and rings, his ringtone a soft violin.

 

It’s familiar to Connor, somehow, but he ignores the niggling in his mind as Nines answers.

 

Seems like Connor’s mattress won’t arrive for a week, to Nines’ frustration. 

 

“It’s okay,” Connor says as Nines hangs up, huffing, “I’ll just sleep on this couch or like, the floor, or something.”

 

Nines raises a brow at him. “No.” he says, aghast at the thought.

 

“What, are we going to share?”

 

“I can sleep here.”

 

Connor shoots up, and it’s his turn to be appalled. “Hell no.”

 

The two of them stare at each other, waiting for the other to back down, to concede.

 

“Then we share.”

 

“So we will.”

 

And that’s that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm great at updating, as you all can tell. =_=;


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